Two Turtle Doves
by Rory4
Summary: A special companion piece to my story, 'Clara Dawson', for the holidays. Clara and Rose's very first Christmas together. Told in Rose's POV. Bit fluffy.


**Two Turtle Doves**

**A/n:**** Just a special little companion piece to **_**Clara Dawson**_** for the holidays. And yes, soon I will be updating **_**Clara Dawson**_**, for all those that have waited nearly a year for the update. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! Oh, and if you see punctuation mistakes and the like, please let me know! Happy holidays, everyone!**

**-Rory4**

**Disclaimer****: I own nothing **_**Titanic.**_** Nor do I own the poem excerpt below.**

_"My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear;_

_My ear is tired waiting for your call._

_I want your strength to help, your laugh to cheer;_

_Heart, soul, and senses need you, one and all."_

-Henry Alford

If there were such a thing as Saint Nicholas, and were I of an age to still write one, the only thing on my Yuletide list this year would be to have Jack Dawson alive and here with me, like he was meant to be. Having him by my side, especially on a day like this one, would be the biggest gift; the greatest absolution.

You know, this is my first real night in my new apartment. It's not much, by any standards. A single yawning room, one miniscule kitchen and one closet-sized washroom. Paying rent has been a struggle, and the little furniture I own is threadbare. But, I've never been more grateful to be somewhere in my entire life.

And I've been many places.

Looking down into the street from the only window I have, I can see families from all walks of life walking in and out of the diner I live over and work in. Husbands and wives are walking hand in hand; children are smiling. To me, they look perfect. Like everything is right within the world. They're everything I'm longing to have myself.

A faint whimpering comes from behind me, and with one last languishing look towards something that had once briefly been within my reach, I turn away. I stride over the creaky, bare wooden floor and past the tattered chaise I sleep on, to the whicker bassinet that rests in a corner near the coal-run fireplace I've yet to use.

The white bassinet is the nicest thing I own these days. And that is only thanks to the wonderful nurses, now like family, from the hospital I have been all but living in for the past few months. It was a home-coming gift for my little girl. Today is her first time home, and our first Christmas together.

I gingerly lift her from her blankets, and lower myself into the chair I keep beside the bassinet. I unbutton the top of my dress, and guide her rose-bud lips to my breast. The song I hum to her comes naturally. It's my small way of keeping Jack a part of our lives. I swear I can almost feel his presence whenever I do.

Clara Ruth Dawson. Her name is made from memories. For a little girl who never had a chance to live, for a mother I can't help but sometimes yearn for, and for a man I never should have known but would love till the end of existence.

Being able to hold Clara like this, is surreal. I have been told more times than I can count, that I never would. Her every breath since she's been born has been my own. If she had just simply forgotten to breathe one day, like the doctor's had said she would, so would have I. The percentage of premature infants that survive are not great. These past months I have spent in tumult, while my too-tiny baby's life has hung by a thin thread, would not have happened if I had given more regard to my pregnancy. I will never forgive myself.

Being a mother is equal parts mystifying and wonderful. I'm still comprehending the fact that it's no longer just myself I have to consider when I make decisions about what to do with my life. From now on, it's the two of us. The love I feel for her, I'm sure, is the purest thing any human being has ever experienced.

I was so lost, at first, when it came to knowing how to care for a baby. I've always assumed that the knowledge of how to soothe and diaper and feed came automatically when you gave birth. You've no idea how inadequate I felt when I didn't know a nappy from a burping rag. I had never been taught anything about child-rearing. Women of my class get nannies when they have children. Thankfully, the nurses all assured me it takes every first-time mother a while to get her sorts about her. And slowly, I've learned. Now, I cannot remember knowing anything else.

Caring for a baby on your own, when you've barely learned how to care for yourself, is hard enough . But, caring for a baby that needs special attention, like constant body heat maintenance, is nearly impossible. I don't remember a time when I have felt anything but tired, either.

While Clara feeds, I stare up at the Christmas tree, more a branch, that I've placed on my small dining table. It's nothing like the trees I've had in the past, with candles and ribbons and glass balls. The only ornament that adorns this tree are two entwined turtle doves, in place of the traditional star. A customer I spend my breaks chatting with sculpted it for me. The weight of the hard-as-porcelain clay makes the top of the tree incline slightly to the right.

Two turtle doves are a symbol of love. My daughter and I may not have very much this Christmas, but we do have plenty of love. And if I've learned anything from the recent events in my life, it's how important love is above anything else.

Even if one day my dreams of being an actress are fulfilled and I can afford the finer things again, I believe I'm still going to use these turtle doves instead of some fancy Christmas star. That way every Christmas I can be reminded of how much love I've had in my life, and how much I always will. And so I can teach Clara the same lesson.

Tonight will be yet another night where I ache for Jack's voice and touch and the strength that saved me, but as I close my eyes and listen to the carolers performing for the diners below, this Christmas night is the also the first glimmer of peace I've felt since the ship sank.


End file.
